


Fear of a Broken Reality

by WayWardWatson



Series: Party When Dead Sherlock Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:52:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWatson/pseuds/WayWardWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world wasn’t made of miracles, it was the land of broken promises and nightmares and every member of AA, every doctor, her parents, even John before he understood, can go to hell if they condone her for it. She may fear reality, she may even be a failure with coping, but reality had failed them, failed everyone, every soul that lived in this world. A failure of happiness, and Harry, with all the bitterness and hatred, drank to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear of a Broken Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 prompt

He asked for a miracle, just one, to come back, to let him know he’s out there, because Sherlock Holmes was still  _alive_  and John, no matter what people said, believed in him. He was,  _is_ , cleverer than Moriarty, so he must have seen his intentions and planned in advance; he had to have faked his death. And the only reason he must not have contacted him by now was because of a threat Sherlock’s working around.

That’s what John believed for the first year and told himself to believe in the second, but one evening in the beginning of the third, he realizes that he’s made two cups of tea again and something horrible snaps inside him, and there is no satisfaction when the cups loudly smash against the kitchen wall. Breathing hard and fast, he leans against the counter before sliding to sit on the tiled floor, head cupped in his hands – quiet.

Sherlock wasn’t going to come back, he was never coming back, because dead people don’t come back and Sherlock was, Sherlock was-

John took a deep breath in and stopped thinking, because the more he thinks the darker his thoughts are. 

Now, exhale.

He goes to grab the broom and clean up the shards.

It wasn’t his time yet, he’d later reason as he shifted through the newspaper. If there was one thing that was true, it was that Sherlock wasn’t a fake and he wasn’t going to let Moriarty win. If he were to - to commit suicide,  well, there is no doubt that the newspapers would see it as the final cemented evidence of Sherlock's death and - he was a soldier, he was above that. 

After throwing the shards away, he went on to make another cuppa. Now, taking a sip of his steaming tea, he stared at the empty chair across him ignoring the extra cup next to _his_ leather chair, building the wall and carrying on. For the next year he continued in a numb trance hoping that, soon, Sherlock will be sitting across him in his chair, drinking his cup, cheek throbbing where a pissed, but relieved John had punched him multiple times. 

But until then, his blogger will be waiting.

...

She liked to think that at one point she had a chance to change, a chance to have a happy and clean life, sober, and in love. But that’s all shit now, isn’t it? Harry takes a swig of the tonic, splayed out watching crap TV. They say, the hyper sensitive AA members with their shaking beady eyes obsessing over the long since empty coffee, that once you hit rock bottom there is no other direction but up. That was shit, and she could drink to that, and she is, so cheers! The glass is nearly empty and the show’s not even a quarter in, she doesn’t even like it and she moves to change the channel.

_But Clara loved this show, she would have them sit together, snuggled under a blue blanket, sharing some popcorn, watching. But Harry hardly paid attention to the TV, sneaking glances at Clara’s smile; she would feel the steady beat of her wife’s heart._

The bottle is empty and Clara feels the sickness, the cold, clammy, cruel illness called reality, and it’s enough to have her scrambling for another bottle half hidden under the table. Clara knew how to deal with the sickness, so did Harry but Clara didn’t approve.

 _She said it was between the bottle or her, and Harry said her, but later that night when Clara would find Harry surrounded by beer cans – she left. It was all her fault._  Harry chugged the whiskey, relishing the burning sensation, drowning all thoughts on Clara.

John called it a fear of reality and a failure of coping; she slapped him and kicked him out of the flat. His visits became less after that, and the topic of her addiction brought up even fewer, until, one day, he stopped coming.

_She was out buying more liquor when she heard what happened; some fake detective couldn’t handle the press and took a dive – she didn’t think it was John’s flatmate until she gets this call from this Hudson lady asking if she could just, please, please help the poor man he’s just lost his world, you’re his sister, dear, maybe you can help him?_

She rests her head on the dining table leg, closing her eyes as the image of her broken brother staring out the window,  _waiting for him_ , came into mind.

She takes another gulp and sets the bottle aside. The room was a mess, the couch dirty, the floors are covered with empty bottles and mysterious stains, the TV kept flickering, and suddenly she didn’t want the bottle because the burn didn’t help, nothing helped and Clara was gone and John was broken, mom, dad, Sherlock were dead, and she was alone – they were alone – in this cold world, this sick reality. Who could blame her if she drank because of it, if John soldiered on as this empty shell?

The world wasn’t made of miracles, it was the land of broken promises and nightmares and every member of AA, every doctor, her parents, even John before he  _understood_ , can go to hell if they condone her for it. She may fear reality, she may even be a failure with coping, but reality had failed them, failed everyone, every soul that lived in this world. A failure of happiness, and Harry, with all the bitterness and hatred, drank to that. 


End file.
